


What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, M/M, Murder, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 04:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4773335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s hardly able to stand, the pain and fatigue momentarily ruled out by awe as he stares down at his own hands, dirtied by blood both physically and figuratively. </i>
</p><p><i>Not enough, Will decides. </i> </p><p>----</p><p>Or, an AU in which Will intends to kill Hannibal and go home, but something changes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

Only when the Dragon is dead does Will breathe again. 

He’s hardly able to stand, the pain and fatigue momentarily ruled out by awe as he stares down at his own hands, dirtied by blood both physically and figuratively. 

Not enough, Will decides. 

“It really does look black in the moonlight,” he offers, because he doesn’t know what else to say about the violent act that had just transpired here. He reaches out a hand, still gasping, and quietly triumphs when strong fingers twine against his and help him stand. 

They’re close to one another, desperately close, heaving in breaths of one another’s air. 

“See,” Hannibal says, and he’s looking at him, fingers moving to tangle loosely in Will’s shirt. “This is all I ever wanted for you, Will.” 

He pauses, looks around at the scene they’ve created. His gaze returns to Will just as quickly as it left. “For both of us.”

Will pulls his eyes up, one of his own hands fisted in the fabric of Hannibal’s shirt. He’s still out of breath, still in pain, but he looks into Hannibal’s eyes unflinchingly. He almost, almost, smiles. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

Hannibal nods a bit, eyes still on Will, the both of them weakened but not dead. 

Not yet. 

Will slowly, carefully, sets his head on Hannibal’s chest, takes in the rusty scent of blood and _him_ one last time. 

Then he pulls away, and pushes Hannibal over the edge. 

He has the decency to look shocked for perhaps a millisecond, but it’s an act. He takes a deathly hold on Will’s sleeve as he’s pushed. 

When Hannibal’s feet leave the ground, so do Will’s. 

He gasps, tries to wrestle his arm from Hannibal’s grip, but it doesn’t work. Instead Hannibal manages to collect Will’s body in his arms, to wrap him up tight and hold him one last time. 

“I forgive you, Will.” 

Halfway to the water, Will wonders if this is for the better. _Can’t live with him, can’t live without him._

The words bring through him a range of every emotion possible all in seconds. Pain, anger, hurt, fear. So many things that Will doesn’t grasp what Hannibal’s intentions are until they hit the water. 

It hurts, but not as badly as it should. It should have hit like concrete, but instead it only hits like waves curling into last corner of his body. 

Hannibal had turned them. 

He had broken Will’s fall. 

The arms loosen around his body and then let go.

When Will opens his eyes, Hannibal is sinking fast. His eyes are wide and unseeing through the water. His blood taints it red. 

Will regards him for a moment, remembering, before he finally turns his back on Hannibal and rises to the surface. 

Hannibal is right, Will decides as he swims to shore and coughs up salty mouthfuls of water. This is where Will belonged, not with a family or with his dogs. He belongs somewhere much more important. 

And the least he can do is honor the dead man’s wish. 

At the crime scene two days later, a wedding band is found and the stolen police car is still missing. Molly sobs, is convinced her Will was taken from her when in reality he went of his own will, alone. Let them think what they wanted to help them sleep at night. It didn’t matter anymore.

At Bedelia’s home three days later, Will levels his face on the woman as he takes his seat at the middle of the long table, only after cutting and serving a piece of her onto each of their plates. One plate, at the other end of the table, sits empty. 

She doesn’t look quite into his eyes. “And so the victim becomes the villain.” 

Will smiles darkly, lifts his wine glass in a silent toast to her. The stitches in his cheek pull, but he doesn’t mind. They’re a reminder. 

“To the devil her due.” He says, voice strong, before he brings the glass to his lips and drinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments + Kudos are read and loved! I also have a [Tumblr](http://little-floral.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to come by and say hello!


End file.
